


Twinkle Twinkle Little Star

by Socrates7727



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Biting, Blood Kink, Hurt/Comfort, Insomnia, Light Dom/sub, Marking, Music, Musician Draco Malfoy, Panic Attacks, Past Abuse, Piano, Top Draco Malfoy, hinted bonding, kind of (very mild)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-28
Updated: 2019-08-30
Packaged: 2020-10-01 22:22:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20424089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Socrates7727/pseuds/Socrates7727
Summary: Draco could play piano. It wasn't a well known fact, outside of Slytherin, and the music always sounded pained and forced, no matter what he did. Except for one little tune he just can't place... Angsty but no longer a one-shot! Drarry! Mentions of homophobia





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I don't own HP or any of the characters! Enjoy!

Draco could play piano. It wasn’t a well known fact, outside of Slytherin, and not many people tended to stop and think about it or really associate it with the blond even if they knew he could play. Most Slytherins could play at least one instrument—classical upbringing, and all that—but few did it of their own choice. Draco was not one of those few. He’d been forced to play piano almost his entire life and he’d hated it, honestly. His instructors had been an endless string of snobby, pretentious rich men who let their hands linger a little too long on Draco’s leg or wrist, and the music always sounded painful and forced no matter what he did.

He was also an insomniac, which worked well for him. Draco didn’t really like other human beings, especially not from other houses, so it actually benefited him to stay up at night when he could be alone and sleep during his breaks during the day. No one ever really commented on it, either, so he continued to do it. It got to the point that, rather than risk Flich or Snape finding him wandering the halls alone, Draco had to find ways to amuse himself in the common room.

Thankfully, the dorms had all been charmed so nothing he did ever woke anyone up. He started by just watching out the windows to the lake, talking to the mermaids who dared come up to the glass, and just being angsty. As he grew older, though, that amused him less and less. The mermaids got bored of him when he stopped bringing them gifts and ignored him, leaving him to stare into the inky blackness and drown in his own isolation. There was a fire that crackled, but there wasn’t much to do there other than stare at it, which dried his eyes out quickly. He lounged on the couches, organized the books on the shelves… He even did some extra studying.

But, he was still bored, which made the insomnia less satisfying and more irritating. It was one thing to stay up and be alone with his thoughts at night, peaceful and free to do what he wished, but it was quite another to feel like he was suffocating in the dull, empty boredom. He was running out of options, so, begrudgingly, he turned to the piano.

The piano was one of those huge, black, sleek instruments that looks like you might smudge it if you actually touched it. Usually, it was enchanted to play soft music in the background. However, Draco had seen more than a few Slytherins compete with complex pieces of music so he knew it could be played, theoretically, when it wasn’t charmed. The real question was, could he actually play it?

He sat on the little wooden bench, and mused at the worn spot where hundreds of other great Slytherins must have sat and played to pass the time. Ironic, considering the pureblood propensity for newness and displays of wealth. Maybe it held sentimental value to someone important? Shaking his head, Draco lifted his hands to the keys and let the pads of his fingers touch.

The ivory was like ice. It almost burned when he touched it and, if he hadn’t known it was ridiculous, Draco would have yanked his hand away in shock. Slowly, the enchanted stillness waned as he pressed his fingers a bit more firmly into place. He felt like he was reassuring the piano that he actually intended to play, not just sit there and awkwardly touch the keys, but even while he hesitated the keys began to give and warm to his touch.

To Draco’s great surprise, it wasn’t the work of some great composer that came out of his hands. His mind struggled without sheet music and, even though he could have just grabbed some from the nearby shelf, he refused and forced his hands to follow muscle memory. It was a tiny, short little song. Draco didn’t recognize it, at first, and thought maybe his teachers had used it as an exercise when he was first learning to play or something. Painfully simplistic, and yet Draco couldn’t stop playing it.

Over and over again, he repeated it with the confidence that no one else would hear him and he struggled to place it. The tune was familiar, but from where? He could remember playing it, remember the little melody, and it carried the memory of his teacher’s delight and encouragement. A woman, strangely enough. Draco didn’t remember ever having a female piano teacher, in fact he remembered his father being very insistent on that fact, but the longer he played it more sure he became. It was a woman’s voice, congratulating him, praising him, and he remembered the swell of pride in his chest.

He’d been young—very young—maybe three or four? In the common room, his eyes closed and he kept playing that one little repetitive tune over and over again from muscle memory alone. His mind focused, trying to remember the name of it, or the female teacher, or why he hadn’t continued to play it as a warmup as he got older. Why hadn’t he remembered having a female teacher?

Then it hit him.

Draco recoiled, smashing his hands down so harshly that the enchanted piano bowed and nearly crashed to the ground. Quickly, it righted itself and almost seemed to pout at him. He didn’t care, though, because he could only sit there on the little bench and cradle his hands against his chest as they throbbed from the memory. A sharp, silver cane crashing down on the keys, on his fingers. Crying. His father’s voice, yelling at the teacher even thought Draco begged him not to and said it was his fault. Whatever  _ it _ was, Draco pleaded for responsibility, for mercy. The teacher took the full force of Lucius’ anger, though, and Draco remembered his father dismissing her, remembered watching through the window of the Manor as she walked back down the drive.

Narcissa had appeared, drawn to the commotion. She’d yelled when she saw Draco’s pale little hands, now swelling and clearly broken in a few places, but Lucius had silenced her. He’d slapped her across the face for daring to raise her voice. That was the first time Draco had ever seen his father hit his mother, he realized, and it made him sick to his stomach to watch the memory of her just take it without a word. She’d comforted Draco and healed his hands, though the muscles still trembled. Lucius had screamed at them all the while, ignoring his son’s pain or his wife’s silence and just bellowing about not tolerating muggle shit in his house.

It’d been a muggle song.

He could remember, now, his teacher trying to explain that it was harmless, just a children’s tune. Just a practice piece, she’d said, but Draco had already felt his father’s anger with the cane across his hands so he cowered beneath the bench and did nothing to defend her. His father had gone wild, and had physically thrown the woman from their house.

Realizing it was a muggle song made Draco actually hesitate, and miss a note, as he considered his location and the people surrounding him. If another pureblood heard, they wouldn’t recognize it. But if, Merlin forbid, someone loyal to his father recognized it Draco had no doubt he would receive the same treatment as he had back then. He shuddered, but kept playing.

Realistically, he was alone in the common room and he knew the dorms were charmed so, even if someone was awake, they wouldn’t hear him. His fingers refused to stop playing, anyways, over and over again that same little tune. It felt empowering, almost. Like his own, silent little rebellion against his father, against the dark army, against everything he was being forced towards. This one little muggle song was his.

* * *

Harry was not supposed to wander the castle at night, and he knew that. But with exams coming soon and Sirius still incommunicado, he was anxious in a way that food and Quidditch didn’t help so he’d taken to pacing the corridors at night under the invisibility cloak. He had the Marauder’s Map, after all, so it wasn’t like Flich could see.  


Somehow, he’d wandered down to the dungeons and he had half a mind to turn tail and run for fear of running into Snape but then he heard something. Piano music? He was sure he’d gone completely mad but he followed it nevertheless because he’d never been one to think things through like that. It stopped at a door he was sure had to be the Slytherin common room.

Interesting, he noted, but that wasn’t what piqued his curiosity—it wasn’t even the piano, or the fact that it was clearly being played rather than enchanted. It was the song. Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. The shock of hearing a muggle children’s song from the infamous, pureblood common room was enough to make Harry wish he had a recording device. A camera that could capture sound, maybe? But he hesitated in the darkness, and listened, because it was Twinkle Twinkle over and over again and he just couldn’t get over that fact. Of all songs…

Harry had stayed and listened to the piano music for much longer than he should have. Nearly twenty minutes, if he had to guess. While it didn’t soothe his curiosity, it did manage to get the little diddy stuck in his head like an infomercial jingle. He found himself humming it as he got ready, though no one noticed.

Breakfast was distracting enough, thankfully, that Harry was able to forget about the tune but, by History of Magic, Harry knew he was doomed. The class was boring enough without the added rendition of children’s songs in his head. Sure enough, the second the room went quiet it started.

_ Twinkle twinkle little star _

_ How I wonder what you are _

_ Up above the world so high _

_ Like a diamond in the sky _

He couldn’t stop himself and he hummed it under his breath in the hopes that it might help somehow. All it did was draw an annoyed look from Hermione across the table. Pity, considering he couldn’t make it stop. To his surprise, though, the great Slytherin prince seemed to be listening to him, too, and he caught the blond glancing back at him more than once. Was Draco intrigued by muggle songs? The boy who had insulted everything muggle, even muggle studies, to the point that it became a running joke among all of Slytherin?

Impossible, right?

* * *

That night, Draco couldn’t help himself. As he made his way down to the common room, sure that everyone else was asleep, he paused in the stairwell just long enough to look outside. The sky was a deep purple, almost black, but it was covered in tiny stars. Like glitter, thrown on black glass. He could remember the words that went with the song—his teacher had sung them under her breath, not even realizing it—and he heard her voice as he looked at them.  


_ Twinkle twinkle little star _

_ How I wonder what you are _

Fitting, he couldn’t help thinking, for a situation like this. Muggles could be so stupid. But then Draco stopped, because what if he was the one being stupid? Stars were made from gas and elements and, often, fire. But there were less… literal stars. Draco felt like a star, if he thought about it, all alone in the galaxy with infinite space between him and the next similar being, even if it looked close to other people. His platinum blonde hair and his silver eyes were shiny enough. The pale skin was an added bonus. As he stared out at the other stars, though, he couldn’t help marveling at the question such a nonsense children’s song had raised—and a muggle song, at that!

What was he? Just this bright, fiery ball of chaos? Destined to burn until it crashed into something or died? That was what he felt like, at least, and it didn’t help that the little glimmering dots seemed to wink at him and draw him in. Like he was already one of them.

_ Twinkle twinkle little star… _


	2. Chapter 2

Harry couldn't help it. Maybe it was because he missed songs like that from his childhood, or maybe it was because he associated that kind of music—which he never heard at home—with the freedom and joy of his muggle primary school. He liked hearing it, though, so when he donned his invisibility cloak again, he wasn’t surprised to find himself outside the Slytherin common room. There was music playing, but not children's songs. Disappointed, Harry was prepared to continue his wandering throughout the school.

Until he heard the playing halt. It had been slow and peaceful—classical, rehearsed. But when it started again the fingers on the keys were hesitant and unsure, as if they couldn't remember how to play this song or they were making it up as they went along. Harry had trouble picturing any Slytherin making their own music, but he liked the idea. So, curling the invisibility cloak around him, he sank down onto the stone to listen.

It should have been his first clue when his eyes grew heavy. Piano music didn't usually relax him because it reminded him of Petunia's playing or of Dudley's three failed years of lessons, which he had had to sit through without a sound. He had never been allowed to touch the piano, of course, but even then the music had been different. Forced, mechanical, and full of mistakes. This player, however, was none of those things nor was Harry listening with any amount of regret. It was obvious that whoever was playing had spent years learning and practicing, if not a lifetime, and it showed as they lost their uncertainty and began to tap the keys with confidence.

He liked it. But, to his surprise, he  _ really  _ liked it. Even with his eyes closed, he had to resist the urge to smile because, though the song itself was sad, it was real and raw in a way Harry loved. He identified with it, he realized, but rather than scare him it only made the feeling stronger.

The sound of footsteps jolted him back to the present. For a second, he felt his blood run cold at the thought of being found here by Filch or, God forbid, Snape but when his hands closed around the invisibility cloak he was able to breathe. It was a Slytherin student—a third or fourth year, if he had to guess. From the hickeys on the girl's neck and the flush to her cheeks, it was obvious she was sneaking back from some midnight rendezvous.

Harry wasn't that interested, really, because what younger Slytherin girls did in their free time was their business. He was intrigued, however, by the idea of the common room door opening. She would open it, for sure. In what felt like seconds, she was beside him and Harry had to make a decision because she was already darting through the opening. He caught it and slipped in silently behind her.

The girl paid no attention to the piano and merely darted off to the right set of stairs, obviously eager not to be caught out of bed by a prefect. Harry got the impression that she was used to the piano playing—probably enchanted, he realized—and hadn't even registered how different the music was now. He didn't mind, though. As she disappeared, he was able to step fully into the warmth of the common room and absorb it. The deep, emerald furniture looked comfortable and well worn. He could see imprints in the material where people often sat and he would have let himself dwell on that if the music hadn't abruptly changed.

Harry felt the air leave his lungs. If he'd thought the melody from before had been beautiful and raw nothing could have prepared him for this new song. It was fast and upbeat—if Harry hadn't already been listening for so long, he might have thought it was happy, even—but the low notes and the choppy rhythm betrayed the player. The music wasn't sad, necessarily. It was rushed and frantic and anxious in a way that made Harry wonder about its composer. Whoever was playing was clearly improvising now, given how quickly sections repeated and began to build on themselves as if it was being written before his very eyes. Though beautiful, the music was scared.

Just for a moment, Harry considered slipping back out through the stone opening and letting the mystery composer keep their secret. He might have, even, if the song hadn't jumped into yet another faster tempo. The playing was quick and terrified like the cry of some wild animal being hunted and Harry knew that feeling too well to just walk away. That wasn't petty fear. It wasn't the churning of someone's stomach before asking a date to the yule ball, and it wasn't the inner struggle of someone failing a class. This fear was much darker, much deeper, and even just listening to it made Harry feel like he was drowning.

Instinct pushed him closer to the piano. He wanted to reach out, to comfort whatever poor soul was clearly struggling just to exist, but it was enough to move closer. The common room had been dimmed into almost complete darkness aside from a few dying embers and the flickering light from a candle. It was enough, though. Enough to see the silhouette of someone tall and slim. Enough to see the green of their robes, discarded on the floor, and the white of their thin dress shirt. Enough to see platinum blond hair.

Harry froze on the spot and instinctively pulled the invisibility cloak tighter around himself. There was no way. Malfoy, of all people, could not be the midnight piano player who sounded so raw and so  _ human  _ that Harry wanted to know them. He couldn't be. Even if Malfoy did have a human side, he couldn't expose it like this—he wouldn't. But, if he thought no one else would hear...

Harry stayed that night for hours, standing until he couldn't feel his feet and just breathing in the shock of Malfoy and that music being in the same place. He didn't want to believe it but he couldn't make himself walk away. So, he stayed. Long past midnight, and long past the point of making his dorm mates worry about where he'd run off to. He stayed until the sight of those pale fingers, almost as white as the keys themselves, finally settled into his mind alongside the music. It wasn't the fact that Malfoy was playing the music that threw him off, exactly, it was that the music  _ was  _ Malfoy. Harry was standing there but he wasn't listening to Beethoven or some long dead musician who’d managed to put notes on a page. He was listening to Malfoy. This was his music, his soul, and the fear that tainted every single note was his.

* * *

Draco couldn't really explain what was going on. His fingers just moved, independent from his mind, and whatever sounds came from the piano just happened. After that memory, he couldn't bring himself to play the muggle song again. Instead, he played whatever was on his mind. He thought about his father, and he thought about the tattoo that would undoubtedly mark his arm before he graduated. It made him want to throw up, but he pictured it. And, gradually, as he played a bit of that tension in his gut started to release. The thought still terrified him to no end but he was able to breathe a little bit more without having to fight the air for oxygen so he kept going. He kept playing, kept thinking, because he didn't know what else to do.

The first time he became aware that something was different, it was the smell that alerted him. Holly and oak, with the faintest hint of rain. It smelled unclean, but in a good way. A way that wasn't filth or vomit as much as it was dry earth and the mud that formed on the banks of the lake. The holly and the oak had piqued his interest, too. Usually, he only ever smelled trees or wood like that in the forbidden forest when he went for walks around the lake because the only trees close enough to the castle to smell were pines, or the whomping willow. He liked it, for some reason.

When it happened again, Draco thought he might have attracted one of the more timid castle ghosts with his playing. Though he could often feel eyes on him, it was the scent that gave it away. Normally, the feeling of anyone watching him made his skin crawl and he would have hated it now, too, but the look was distinctly nonthreatening. Maybe because it was a ghost that couldn't hurt him?

His gut said otherwise, though, because he knew it was human—or, at least, something that had the potential to hurt him—he just wasn't scared of it. Something about the presence was oddly comforting. Often, he found himself looking over his shoulder or checking as if he'd find a first year Slytherin hiding behind one of the couches. After a few times with no luck, though Draco decided he simply didn't care. Whoever or whatever it was never interrupted him or made a sound, just listened, and Draco didn't mind the audience because it didn't feel like a threat. He knew that was ridiculous, but he was often tired and struggling already when he played so he just accepted it.

As he got more familiar with the smell, he began to wait for it. His hands ached, at first, because he wasn't used to playing that much so he waited until he felt the presence before starting to play. Slowly, he let his eyes close as he played. Never when the presence wasn't there, though, as if he trusted it to watch his back.


	3. Chapter 3

Harry wasn’t sure why he kept coming back. He did, though, almost religiously to the point that Ron was convinced he had a secret girlfriend. Something about the routine, about sneaking into the emerald common room and stealing the sound of that music, made his nightmares a little less horrible. He couldn't always find someone to follow inside, especially if he was running late. Sometimes he was exhausted and only paused for a minute or two outside the stone door, but he never missed a night. It was almost sacred to him now.

Draco was getting used to him now too, though Harry still wasn’t sure how, and often waited to even start playing until Harry had taken a seat on the little wooden bench near the piano. It was nice, honestly. For the first time in Harry's life someone was waiting for him—not rushing to eat before he could, not hurrying to class because he was too slow, not waking and leaving before he'd even realized they were gone—waiting.

The more time Harry spent listening, the more he began to learn the complexities of how Draco played. Soft, gentle presses on the keys were not sweet, they were sleep deprived. Fast songs were not happy or cheerful, they were scared. But, more than anything, Harry learned to read Draco's posture and the quirks of his expression.

Often, the way Draco played was sad and tortured in a way Harry had never associated with the blond. It had set him on edge, at first, but he was used to it now. Used to the sad, hollow way the notes echoed through the room and the thrumming vortex of fear he could have drowned in. But, the second he slid into the Slytherin common room, he could tell something was wrong. The terrified second year he’d followed in heard the music and practically broke into a run just trying to get away, clearly under the impression that it was a threat. Harry was late compared to their usual schedule because it’d taken him a long time to find someone to follow in, but Draco was already playing. That was never a good sign.

If their sudden schedule shift hadn’t alerted Harry that something had happened, the music would have. It was heavy and hopeless in a way he’d never heard Draco play before. Instantly, he hated it. He hated whatever put that sorrow in Draco’s fingertips and he hated whatever made the blond quiver like that on the piano bench. Draco was crying, he realized. Harry didn’t know what to do even though his muscles ached to reach out and ease the pain, so he just took his usual seat.

Almost immediately, Draco stilled and lifted his head. A slow smile cracked over those pale lips and, if tears hadn’t still been falling, Harry would have sworn that the blond looked almost relieved.

“I was worried you weren’t coming tonight.” Shit. Draco was talking to him. The blond didn’t know he was there—he couldn’t—but Harry still checked the invisibility cloak to be sure. Thankfully, Draco didn’t seem to be expecting a response. He lifted his hands and went back to playing, letting the tears flow freely down his cheeks as he bent his head and closed his eyes. The music was so sad…

Harry wasn’t sure what made him do it, really, but he couldn’t help himself. There was so much weight and so much pain in Draco’s music that he could taste it and every fiber of his being just ached to help. Tentatively, he lifted a hand. When he touched the blond’s shoulder, Draco nearly fell off the bench.

“You’re real…?” Harry didn’t say anything—afraid of giving away his identity—but, just as suddenly, Draco reached back and pressed the hand on his shoulder down a little tighter. He was… encouraging Harry? That didn’t make any sense but the way Draco sighed and returned to the keys made it seem almost plausible. But that didn’t make sense. It couldn’t be. To test the theory, Harry lifted his other hand and placed it on Draco’s left shoulder. He relished in the little involuntary shiver Draco gave. Slowly, gently, he smoothed his palms against the thin dress shirt and massaged the muscles that were twitching underneath.

“Someone I love got the dark mark today.” Harry’s stomach dropped. Quickly, he hummed, trying to reassure the blond that he was there without giving away his voice, but Draco didn't seem to need it. He was shaking now, as if the music had pulled every ounce of control from his body. The music just got sadder, though.

Harry knew he shouldn't do it, but he couldn't stop himself once the thought entered his mind. He slid his hands over the blond’s shoulder, onto his chest, and leaned until he was hugging Draco from behind. Those pale fingers fumbled on the keys. Then, all at once, Draco just grabbed at his arms and pulled Harry almost on top of him in a sharp, desperate reach for comfort. Harry watched, hardly breathing, as Draco took his hand and intertwined their fingers. Pale skin clashed with dark. The invisibility cloak had slipped in the commotion and Harry almost panicked until he realized that Draco's eyes were closed. Draco squeezed his hand.

"Please don't let go." Harry didn't understand until Draco moved his hands back to the keys and started with another song. This one was slow and heartbroken. He stayed where he was, though, and let his head rest on the blond's shoulder as he held him. It felt strangely...  _ right  _ to stand there like that.

Draco's skin was hot against his touch, even through the invisibility cloak, and his hands were clammy and unsteady but Harry didn’t mind. The longer he stayed there, the more steady Draco became. Harry felt the rise and fall of the blond's chest slow into an almost peaceful rhythm. The song became a little less heavy. Not happy, but not drowning in sadness the way it'd been before. He didn't leave that night until the sun began to shine through the lake and he could hear people beginning to stir.

The next night, Harry was pleased to see Draco waiting for him but, when he took his usual seat, Draco didn't start playing. His eyes were closed, his posture tense. If he hadn't let out a sigh Harry might have thought he'd fallen asleep while waiting for him. Slowly, he watched Draco inhale a deep breath and hold it, as if savoring something in the air, before the blond turned in his general direction.

"Please?" For a second, Harry didn't know what was happening. But then he saw the pinch in Draco's expression and the stiff way that he was moving and it hit him. Draco was asking for contact. He couldn't say it out loud—he was probably ashamed and scared, Harry would have guessed—but he was asking nevertheless. Harry stood and moved behind him.

It seemed like too much too fast but Draco had asked for the contact and those blonde strands looked so soft... He let his hand slip out from under the invisibility cloak and carded his fingers through Draco's hair. Immediately, it was like his touch was electric. Draco jolted and went rigid on the little wooden bench, but Harry couldn't stop his hand from doing it again and then again. Slowly, Draco relaxed into it. Harry let his other hand rest on the blond’s shoulder but he didn't stop smoothing his hair. Draco began to play, finally, and Harry felt the muscles beneath his hand relax a bit.

This song was the happiest one Harry had ever heard Draco play. It wasn't cheerful or bright, but it had the least amount of darkness and weight latching onto every note so Harry kept touching. He scratched, lightly, at the blond's scalp and savored the little shudder he caused. His hand smoothed where it was resting on Draco's thin white button up, before digging his thumb into the stiff muscles there. Draco jumped, but quickly sank back into the touch.

It felt like seconds had passed, but Harry knew Draco had gone through at least six songs and the lake was starting to shimmer with dawn sunlight. He had to force himself to stop combing through the soft, blond strands. Draco didn't protest or stop playing, though so Harry let that hand fall back to his side and slowed the other. Maybe Draco hadn't wanted Harry to keep touching him? The thought that he overstepped and done this of his own free will made Harry recoil, but immediately Draco let out a whine low in his throat. It sounded dangerously close to a sob, and Harry grappled for some kind of contact to make it stop. In his haste, he managed to cement his grip around the back of Draco's neck.

For a second, Harry thought he might have killed Draco. The blond went rigid but then just completely  _ melted  _ into Harry's touch. He leaned back, almost dead weight against Harry's waist, but Draco was so obviously  _ unconcerned  _ with falling that Harry couldn't ignore the rush of pride through his chest. Draco had trusted him. The Slytherin prince who trusted no one, not even his closest friends, had leaned back with all the faith in the world that Harry would catch him. His breathing had turned slow and shallow, his head pressing into Harry's stomach. With a start, Harry realized he was still tightly gripping the back of the blond’s neck and he let go, afraid of hurting him. But Draco merely took a small breath and reached back. His hand managed to find Harry's leg through the invisibility cloak, and he held onto it like an anchor.

"Please not yet." Harry couldn't help it. There was so much sheer vulnerability in the blond’s voice that he had to do something. At the very least, he wanted to reassure the Slytherin that he would be back again the next night. That he wouldn't miss this for the world.

"Tonight." He tried to disguise his voice but he doubted that Draco was really listening. The blond looked so far gone that it almost scared him. But the whisper reached those pale ears and Draco straightened up with a sigh that sounded too broken to ever have come from someone his age.

"Yeah, tonight." Harry really didn't want to go. Every fiber of every muscle in his body urged him to stay, to hold onto the broken boy in front of him and never let him fall. He could hear footsteps on the stairs, though, and they were getting closer. His hand reached out, aching to restore the contact, but Harry only let himself smooth those blond strands perfectly back into place before darting for the door. It had barely started to close when he heard someone call out.

"Ay, Malfoy! What are you doing up so early?" He heard the start of Draco's reply—heard the familiar menace and fire in those words—but it was a strange sort of relief to him. Draco had been quiet and apathetic recently. Maybe he was actually managing to help the blond with these nightly meetings?

* * *

Draco wasn't shocked to find out he was an eighth veela. The details were fuzzy but he didn't really care to learn because there were much bigger issues going on with his family at the moment. It didn't matter in the long run, either, because it wasn't like he had a mate or he could transform. As it was, sometimes his eyesight got a little better during Quidditch games and sometimes he could smell or sense things a few seconds before other people did. He learned to identify people by their different colognes and perfumes, and he practiced this skill around blind corners in the hallways of the castle. No matter what he did, though, he couldn't stop himself from searching for that familiar scent. Holly and oak, with a little something natural mixed in.

It wasn't until a particularly harsh lesson of defense against the dark arts that Draco began to put two and two together. Snape had been particularly dickish to the golden trio, which was as entertaining as ever, but in his anger he demanded to know what their wands were made of, if not pure stupidity. Hermione spouted off.

"Vine wood, holly, and willow, Professor." Snape had taken points for not raising her hand, but Draco had stopped completely. Holly. Was it possible that the holly piece of that familiar smell was the owner's wand? And, if so, who had a holly wand? Draco had certainly never met anyone with one because it was a rare wood. But then again Hermione had just said that one of the golden trio had a wand made from holly. He thought back to the feeling of hands on his shoulders, and of tears on his face.  _ Please don't let it be the weasel _ , he thought.

But, just because one of the golden three had a holly wand, that didn't stop him from searching for others. He got a semi-legal list from Ollivander’s and worked his way through it to find all the Hogwarts students, who he then worked his way through in turn. Sure enough, every student on that list had the faintest smell of holly pervading the air around them. None of them smelled of oak, though, or of rich earth and rain.

It was halfway through a Quidditch match that realization hit him a second time. The match was against Ravenclaw and had no real competition behind it because the blue team had already sealed their fates by losing to Gryffindor the week before. He caught a whiff of oak from a scratched broom as it whizzed past him.

A Quidditch player.

Draco had avoided both the P section and the W section of his list because he already knew that Granger's wand was vine wood. The Quidditch clue didn't give him any new hints, but he could examine the brooms of both Potter and Weasley during next week's match. Short of just straight up asking, that was all he could do.

He would have waited, too, just to catch a glimpse of either broom but he couldn't resist that night at the piano. Like usual, he waited for his mystery guest before starting to play. Part of him was terrified that it was Potter, but a bigger part of him just prayed that it wasn't the Weasel. The mystery guest had been getting more comfortable with him as they met more often, and he didn't even have to tilt his head before the familiar weight of those hands settled onto his shoulders. He had to hold back a small smile at the contact.

Draco had thought about this moment for a long time—and, for the most part, had convinced himself it was a bad idea. But he'd planned it anyways, just in case. His hands reached for the keys and he played a somber, mellow little tune because he knew that sadder songs made the hands on his shoulders squeeze just a little tighter. When he finished, though, he didn't launch into the next song. Instead, he paused.

"Any requests, Harry?" It was a leap of faith, but Draco took it and was pleased to feel the hands on his shoulders stiffen. He'd guessed correctly, thank Merlin. Behind him, Harry hesitated and Draco thought he might turn and bolt but then the soft rustle of cloth hit his ears. When he turned, Harry was standing there looking absolutely petrified.

"I  _ said  _ any requests, Harry?" The dark-haired boy jumped at the force in his voice but quickly recovered. He didn't take his hands away, Draco noticed.

"Twinkle twinkle little star." His fingers moved back to the keys of their own accord and began to play the little muggle song, even if it made his chest tight. Harry's hands were still on his shoulders, but they were stiff and motionless which was not like normal and Draco felt the pressure slowly lift, as if Harry was debating pulling away entirely.

"You don't have to stop just because I know it's you." Harry didn't move, even when Draco began to repeat the muggle song.

"How long have you known?" He shrugged, letting Harry feel the movement through his shoulders rather than use unnecessary words. It was weird—the thought of communicating through physical touch and movement—but he kind of liked it. The idea of it, at least.

"Not long. It was the scratch in your broom handle that gave it away," Draco started the muggle song again—Merlin it was short—but he felt Harry's confusion. "The scent. You smell like holly and oak, even with whatever made you invisible. Your wand is holly, I figured that out, but the oak is from your Quidditch broom." Slowly, Harry nodded. Draco started the song yet again and fully expected the Gryffindor to remain silent, but those hands suddenly gripped tight. Harry forcibly turned him on the bench, forcing Draco to meet his eyes.

"It doesn't bother you? That it's me, I mean?" Draco merely shrugged. For once, Harry seemed like the unconfident one between them and the dynamic shift was strangely unsettling. He just wanted to play and have the Gryffindor hug him like normal.

"Bother me? No, it fucking terrifies me, Harry. But that doesn't mean I'm going to stop doing it." Draco couldn't explain the sudden confidence that overtook his body. Maybe it was seeing Harry so uncertain, or maybe it was watching those darker hands fall back to the Gryffindor’s side, but Draco had a sudden surge of strength. He reached out and grabbed one of those hands. In one fluid motion, he spun back around on the bench and placed that hand in its usual spot on his shoulder.

"If you want me to play that stupid muggle song, you'd better keep your hand there." Harry obeyed. Draco went back to the keys and let himself focus again on the feeling of ivory against the pads of his fingers. Slowly, after the third or fourth repetition, he felt Harry settle his other hand back into place as well.

"You can play something else, if you want." Draco nodded. It was small, but he heard the reassurance there—Harry wouldn't let go, even if Draco stopped playing what he'd requested. He appreciated that more than he could say. Instead, he settled for playing one of the songs he knew Harry liked.

"You're not perfect." The shock of Harry's voice was nothing compared to the sting of those words. What the hell was Harry talking about? Draco knew he wasn’t perfect, of course, and often obsessed over the things that made him that way but he didn’t need Harry pointing it out.

"Neither are you." Harry shook his head, leaning a little more of his weight into Draco in a way that made the blond's head spin. "And yet, here we are."

"Here we are," Harry repeated softly, as if agreeing. Draco felt those dark forearms tilt, and then slide down onto his chest in a weird sort of half hug. He liked it, though. The Gryffindor’s weight had always been comforting to him, even if it was just the tiny pull of gravity from his hands. Greater contact was not an exception to the rule, either. As Harry leaned on him a little more, he felt the dark-haired boy let his chin rest on the top of Draco’s head.

"You're falling asleep, Potter. Am I that boring?" But Harry quickly straightened and shook his head. Draco would have laughed if he hadn’t suddenly missed the contact so much, but Harry didn’t seem to notice. Instead, he just picked himself back up a bit.

"My feet hurt is all." Again, Draco felt that surge of confidence when he heard Harry's voice catch in his throat. It was like the Gryffindor was scared of him, now. As if Draco was suddenly going to lash out at him or call in his goonies to beat him to a pulp. 

"Sit, then." But Harry didn't move and, if anything, leaned back into him a little more. "Potter you're going to make me mess up." At that, Harry stiffened. He didn’t move much, though, he just put a little more distance between their faces.

"You said not to move my hands if i wanted you to keep playing." Draco had said that. He'd meant it, too, but only for the stupid muggle song. Suddenly, the thought of Harry moving any farther away became unbearable and he rushed to stop him.

"You want me to keep playing?" Harry nodded, but Draco was taken aback because he hadn't expected Harry to keep listening now that the mystery was over. "Then here." In a flash, Draco pulled them both up and turned the little piano bench lengthwise before plopping back down on the front half. Harry sat behind him, but kept distance between their bodies.

"Afraid I'll bite, Potter?" The dark-haired boy merely kept his hands on Draco's shoulders, though, and seemed content to stay there. Pity.

"I don't want to mess you up." There was so much sincerity in his voice that Draco wanted to both laugh and cry. He legitimately thought closeness would render him unable to play. Now, after everything they'd done.

"Harry, I've spent the last three weeks playing just fine with you practically hanging on me. I think I can manage." He didn't give the Gryffindor time to argue either, because he knew Harry would fight him on it. Instead, he reached back and grabbed Harry's hands to pull them around his middle.

"But you-"

"I'm cold. That will mess me up before you do, Potter." Harry obliged and slid semi-back into place, now level with Draco. It wasn't perfect, but it was enough to make the ache in Draco's chest just a little less sharp. He settled and began to play again.

* * *

Harry didn't really know what to do with his current situation. On one hand, the blond clearly wanted to keep some form of contact but, on the other, it was Draco. He could guess, by now, that if anyone in the entire wizarding world was going to pull a no homo on him, it would be the Slytherin. Pureblood homophobia and all that.

But the memory of Draco's reaction when he’d grabbed the back of his neck was still fresh in Harry's mind. More than any anxiety, he wanted to see the reaction again. Slowly, as Draco played, Harry let himself edge a little closer. He let his inner thighs press against the blond's hips, and he lowered his arms until they were more around Draco's waist than his ribs. When he didn't get an adverse reaction, he let himself relax.

“I'm still cold, you know.” Harry laughed but took the cue to wiggle closer. He hesitated, but eventually gave up and just pushed himself flush against Draco's body on the little bench. The blond shivered. But, he didn't say anything or stop playing, so Harry slowly let his head drop against Draco's shoulder blade. It was oddly comforting. Draco's heartbeat resonated against his cheek but Harry found it soothing rather than nerve wracking.

It was Malfoy, though, so he couldn't help pushing his limits. The song spiraling up from the piano was light and delicate and uncharacteristic for the Slytherin but Harry took it as an indication that he was relaxing. When he was sure that Draco was lost in the music, he let one of his hands snake up to his neck.

All at once, everything stopped. Draco's entire body seized and then collapsed against him but Harry was ready this time and didn't let go. Harry was so glad he'd kept an arm around the Slytherin’s waist. If he hadn't, Draco surely would have slid right down onto the floor. As it was, Harry managed to balance him between the grip on the back of his neck and the grip on his waist. He held, even when the blond let his head fall back against Harry's chest.

Looking down, Harry was shocked to see those calculating steel eyes now closed, vulnerable, and calm. The blond's lips were slightly parted, and his jaw had gone lax. That beautiful, thin, pale chest was rising and falling in rapid, shallow little pants—though Draco looked anything but scared.

“You've stopped playing.” Draco frowned at him, but it did nothing to hide the distinct lack of tension in his body.

“You're being distracting.” Harry chuckled, but the sudden calm on Draco's face looked dangerously like submission and he couldn't stop himself.

“I'm gay.” Those silver eyes opened, but they didn't look horrified or disgusted.

“You can be both, Potter.” Draco was practically lying down, now, with his head in Harry's lap but Harry did not know how to process that. He gaped, even as those eyes settled on him again.

“You're not…?” Draco laughed, though, rather than yell or hit him.

“What? Homophobic? It'd be a little hypocritical if I was, don't you think?” Harry has having trouble processing. This was just… so  _ not _ what he'd been expecting. Something on his face must have resembled panic, though, because those silver eyes softened and Draco reached up to touch his cheek.

“Hey, breathe.” Pale fingers smoothed along his jaw and, unfortunately, caught the tremor of his lower lip. “Is it really that bad in the muggle world?” Harry wanted to correct Malfoy, who still sneered a bit over the word muggle, but he couldn’t make his voice work. He faltered, but Draco quickly took the hand around his waist and squeezed. Those silver eyes had darkened with concern.

“It’s not that bad in general. Big cities and stuff where people are more liberal, you know. My relatives just… With them, it’s bad.” Draco nodded. Honestly, Harry was having a hard time taking in any oxygen with those rings of pure, liquid silver focused on him. The blond, still in his lap, had curled a bit and was resting his cheek against Harry’s inner thigh. He sighed, but didn’t take his hand off of Harry’s cheek.

“My father doesn’t know either.” That, it seemed was enough of a confession because Draco straightened back up. He did a short scale, but he seemed on edge. Harry could not for the life of him understand why, though, because if anyone was anxious right now it was him.

“Tonight?” With a jolt, Harry realized that the sun was almost fully up and shining through the lake. Had it really been that long? But, more than anything, he quickly understood the look of concern on Draco’s face as the blond glanced between the door and the sunlight. He was afraid that this was over, now, because he’d figured out Harry’s identity.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world, Drake.” The Slytherin said nothing about the new nickname, but blew him a dramatic kiss as he pulled the invisibility cloak back over his body.

“Dream of me, sweet midnight lover.” Harry rolled his eyes, though Draco couldn’t see it, but ran a hand through the blond strands out of habit. Draco pouted, but gave him another smile as he slid out the door. He had to wonder, though, how much Draco really was joking. They’d been meeting like that, in secret, for over two months every night like goddamn Romeo and Juliet. But there wasn’t anything there… right?


	4. Chapter 4

They had a routine by now. Draco was used to the feeling of Harry’s warmth settled around him, and he liked the sensation of Harry’s breath on his skin. It wasn’t often that one of them just completely broke down and cried but, when they did, Draco always left that night feeling a little more tightly bonded to the Gryffindor. He didn’t mind, though, because he’d given up trying to be anxious about their nightly meetups. If someone found out, then someone found out. If his father threw a tantrum and Draco got hurt, then Draco would just get hurt. As strange as it was, he couldn’t bring himself to be anxious when Harry was holding onto him like that.

Ever since that conversation, Harry had acted more comfortable with contact. It was nice, honestly, because Draco lapped up every form of touch or contact that Harry would give him like it was his lifeblood. Harry liked how desperate he was, it seemed, so Draco spent less and less energy trying to hide it.

They fit well together. Somewhere between the contact and the sleep deprivation, other touches became normal too. Harry easily ran those dark fingers through Draco’s hair, but he also easily tugged on the strands until Draco was breathless in his lap. Which, Draco often had to remind him, was distracting. Arms around his waist were fine, but then so were Harry’s hands sliding gracefully up and down his thighs or massaging his lower back. Also distracting, though Harry feigned innocence every time.

It wasn’t uncommon for Draco to press his hips back into the Gryffindor, or for Harry to nip at his throat and leave barely-there hickeys beneath his collar. The dark-haired boy often left with scratches on his thighs or forearms. Draco’s nails were brutal, but he only ever did it when Harry deserved it and, even then, Harry never complained at the pain. Often, Harry would provoke him just to get him to do it again.

But, this time, Draco was running late. He wasn’t surprised to find the common room empty—though he knew Harry was there by the smell alone. Quickly, he turned the piano bench and sat on it, waiting for that familiar warmth to settle into place behind him, but it didn’t come. Confused, Draco sniffed the air again but he was sure Harry was in the room. Why wasn’t he joining him?

“Harry?” A sniff came from one of the couches which, Draco noticed, had a weird imprint in the cushions. Determined now, he marched over and threw off whatever invisibility thing Harry had on him, ready to find the Gryffindor asleep or giggling in wait for him. He was not expecting Harry to look so… shattered.

“Hey, what happened? What’s wrong?” But, rather than snap to his senses, Harry just blinked those tear-filled eyes back at him.

“Sirius… He—” Draco didn’t need to hear the word  _ gone _ to understand. He half dragged, half carried Harry over to the piano bench, but this time Harry got the front position and Draco anchored his arms around the Gryffindor.

“Drake, he…” Draco didn’t let him finish, though. He nuzzled into the hollow of Harry’s throat the way the dark-haired boy had done to him a thousand times and took those shaky hands in his own. Gently, he guided them to the keys and gave a little squeeze.

“Follow my lead.” Harry was trembling so hard that Draco thought he might just fall apart completely. But, he reminded himself, he’d seen Harry pull him back from worse and it was only fair that he did the same, even if he had no idea what to do. He scraped his teeth against Harry’s jugular to get him to focus.

“First here.” He pressed Harry’s pointer finger onto one of the keys. Immediately, the sound managed to resonate in the Gryffindor a way that Draco’s voice just couldn’t. Harry straightened, if only slightly, and wiped at his cheeks.

“That’s C. Then here, okay?” He guided that shaky finger to the next key, pressing twice. “This is G. Can you repeat what I just did?” Harry hesitated, shrinking back into Draco’s body, and just for a second Draco couldn’t breathe. He didn’t want Harry to stop and that terrified him. But no, that was not the focus right now and Draco forced his attention back to where Harry’s hands were hesitating, trying to remember which key was middle C.

“Here.” Draco kept his voice soft and gentle, afraid of scaring the Gryffindor, but Harry followed his directions regardless. Slowly, Draco watched his student play a very hesitant C, G, G pattern.

“Good, you’re doing so good.” Harry almost melted at the praise, but Draco didn’t let himself stop to think about that for very long. “I forgot to tell you two C’s, though, sorry. Try again?” The dark-haired boy obeyed, repeating those four notes over and over again as if waiting for Draco to say it was good enough. Draco couldn’t, though. He couldn’t make his voice work because somehow, the feeling of Harry being so unsteady and so obviously in pain made Draco want to scream. Thank Merlin he didn’t—he would have scared the shit out of Harry—but the urge was there. Instead, he settled for pressing a kiss against Harry’s pulse point in reward and taking his hand again to show him the next note.

“This is A. Two notes for this one too.” Again, Harry watched Draco run through the pattern and then attempted to replicate it. The Slytherin knew, realistically, that Harry was getting a little better in his arms but that didn’t stop his limbs from burning, aching to reach out and comfort him somehow. This was all he could do, though, so he kept going.

“Good, Harry.” He emphasized this with another kiss against Harry’s throat, which made the Gryffindor shiver. “Then back to G, only one note this time. C, C, G, G, A, A, G. Got that?” Harry nodded, and immediately began to mimic what Draco had shown him. Draco didn’t care, in that moment, about sharps or flats or chords or scales he just wanted Harry to stop shaking so damn badly because it felt like the floor was going to fall out from under them.

“Good,” Another kiss. “This is F and E, they both get two notes each.” Wordlessly, Harry adjusted to the new instruction and repeated that tune over and over again. Draco couldn’t help it. Maybe it was selfish, and maybe it was stupid, but something in his chest burned at him and he wanted it to stop. He lifted his head just slightly and pressed his nose into the hollow under Harry’s jaw.

Sweet Merlin! The rush of holly and oak and rain was enough to overwhelm his senses and he faltered, almost letting go before that warmth let him breathe. Harry had stilled, now clearly worried but still unsteady. Quickly, Draco righted himself and mumbled the next few notes but his mind was reeling because  _ Merlin _ that was like a drug to him and it was still coursing through his system. Thankfully, he bought enough time to right himself and focus back on Harry.

“Good,” He wanted to kiss the boy’s throat again but he wasn’t sure if he could let his nostrils that close to Harry again, so he settled for squeezing his hand. “That’s the first part. Now, the second. It’s pretty similar, though, and it goes GGFFEED like this.” How in the name of Salazar Slytherin was his voice so calm? Draco felt like his skull was imploding and suddenly all his body wanted was a repeat of whatever had just happened, but he forced himself to get a grip. Harry was still crying softly in his arms, shaking whenever Draco hesitated too long. He needed to focus.

Listening to Harry play that song was damn near addictive. It was obvious that the muggle-raised wizard had recognized it enough to know which sections repeated when, but Draco just let him play it over and over again because it was the best thing he’d ever heard. Slowly, he dared to let himself edge closer to Harry’s throat because Merlin he wanted it so badly. Focus! His eyes watched those darker hands play the keys, a brilliant contrast to the ivory while Draco’s hands almost blended in, but his mind was entirely elsewhere.

He inched closer and closer to Harry’s pulse point. Draco could practically smell the fear dissipating from his lover—wait his  _ what!? _ But he couldn’t stop to think on it long because his mouth had parted and his teeth were inching closer to that delicious, unmarked skin. How many times had Harry left little half-hickies on Draco’s throat just to distract him? It was a solid idea, right? And not at all based on that fact that Draco’s entire body was on  _ fire _ and urged him closer. 

Draco restrained himself to little nips, at first, and was pleased when he felt Harry subsequently stiffen and relax back into him. That stupid little muggle song was still filling the air, but Draco found himself losing the bitter taste in his mouth that his first memories had put there. From Harry’s hands, it sounded downright spiritual.

_ Fuck  _ Harry’s skin tasted so good. In any other moment, that thought would have sent Draco into a panic attack but he couldn’t even stop long enough to be scared. The Gryffindor tasted faintly of sweat and of salt—had the scarlet Quidditch team braved a swim in the lake?—but what really got Draco was the sharp, tangy flavor that filled his mouth. It wasn’t sweat or tears or even blood, it was just… Harry.  _ Merlin _ that thought drove him damn near insane and set his insides alight with something like electricity.

He hadn’t realized that Harry had stopped playing. His Gryffindor— _ wait his?! _ —had gone rigid and deathly still in his arms and Draco scrambled to understand why. When he felt his teeth, sunk deep into the dark-haired boy’s throat and just milliseconds away from breaking the skin, his blood ran cold. Every rational part of his mind said that this was wrong, that he was clearly hurting the boy in his arms and had to stop. But some deeper, more primal part of him refused.

“ _ Don’t stop _ …” Harry’s voice was weak at best but Draco heard it and, instantly, that primal part took over. He bit down hard and dug his teeth deeper until he could taste blood. _ Merlin fucking Salazar Godric dammit Merlin _ ! It was  _ not _ okay the way that that burned through every nerve ending in Draco’s entire body and threatened to drown him in ecstasy. He loved it though, he loved it so fucking much. Draco held it there, letting the metallic taste slide through his lips and mix with that tangy flavor that was so  _ Harry _ that it hurt. Slowly, he came back to reality.

With a jolt, he realized Harry still hadn’t moved and was now crying again in his arms. Fuck! He’d hurt him and he’d screwed this up and Draco was never going to be able to live with himself knowing that— But then Draco shifted his arm just slightly. He caught the bulge in Harry’s pants against his forearm and remembered the way Harry had always shuddered at the scratches. Was it possible that he  _ liked _ pain?

“Are you..?” But Draco didn’t get the chance to finish that question because Harry had turned those emerald rings onto him and there was nothing but lust there. Where the hell had that come from!? Draco didn’t protest, though, and Harry suddenly wrapped his fingers so tightly in his hair that he could have screamed from the pain. It dulled, though, the second Harry crashed their lips together.

If Draco had thought that kissing Harry’s neck was addictive, he’d been sorely unprepared for what it would feel like to actually kiss the Gryffindor. For the first time in his entire existence, Draco felt like life was being breathed back into him. Something in him just snapped. Between the hands in his hair and the lips practically destroying his, Draco didn’t think he could get any higher but then—  _ Fuck! _ Harry had managed to turn around and was straddling him, grinding down again his erection. Heat surged through his body. Every nerve, every muscle, every bone that he had screamed for more and ached to reach out, to touch, to claim.

Draco made himself stop. Claim? No, that wasn’t right because Harry wasn’t his and this was just some grieving attempt at not feeling empty. He pulled back, and stopped Harry with a hand on his chest.

“Potter, this is is not the way to deal with your emo—” The rest of that sentence died on his lips the second Draco let himself open his eyes, though. Nothing could have prepared him for that sight. Harry, his eyes dark with lust, sat mere inches from him with swollen lips and his own blood smeared over his mouth. Draco wanted to cry. Everything in him screamed that this was right, that this was exactly the way things were supposed to be, but he couldn’t let himself give in to this because, as much as the sight of the blood drove him wild, he knew this wasn’t what Harry wanted.

“Harry…” But the Gryffindor was ten steps ahead of him and was already hauling them towards the door.  _ Dammit _ his eyes caught the bite mark on Harry’s neck, still bleeding slightly but already starting to bruise, and Draco just lost it. He  _ wanted _ and he  _ needed _ and he—

He stopped. Harry had pulled them into a room Draco had never seen before. The large, four-poster bed looked so inviting and a fire was already burning in the hearth, but it only distracted him until he felt Harry undoing the buttons of his shirt.

“Harry, this isn’t…” His Gryffindor caught him in a searing kiss—fuck, no not  _ his _ !

“For Merlin’s sake just let me do this, Draco!” He protested, though, keeping a hand firmly on Harry’s chest for fear the raven-haired boy might suddenly topple to the ground. “This doesn’t have to be because I’m sad, okay? This isn’t because I’m emotionally vulnerable or upset or any of that bullshit this is because I  _ want _ you, Draco. I have for months, and I swear to you this is not some pity party.” Harry waited, as if checking to see whether or not Draco’s fears had all been assuaged, but Draco felt like a fish out of water.

“You what?”

“I  _ want _ you Draco.”

“But you’re…” He was going for the Savior of the entire wizarding world, or pure, or even a Gryffindor but Harry cut him off.

“Gay as fuck, we’ve established that. I want this. This is me, telling you that I’m not too fucked up to make a decision like this and I  _ want _ you, Drake. Now please can I kiss you?” Draco would have said no—he should have said no—because he knew how bad of an idea this was but he couldn’t stop himself. That deeper, stronger part of him reared its ugly head and he snatched Harry up into a fierce kiss.

It bruised and it burned and it tasted like Harry’s blood but  _ Merlin _ it was perfect. Harry was just as desperate, though. His Gryffindor— _ no! Not his! _ —had them both stripped to their boxers so quickly Draco thought he might have used a spell. Why would he know a spell for vanishing clothes? But he didn’t have time to think about it because then Harry was trailing kisses down his chest and dropping to his knees.

Something inside Draco liked that way too much. Every inch of him positively imploded at that sight and he couldn’t breathe because Harry’s lips were swollen still and his eyes had glazed over and he looked so fucking  _ wrecked _ that Draco couldn’t take it. He didn’t even let Harry get a touch in below his waist before he practically threw them both back onto the bed.

They clashed in a flurry of teeth and flesh but the only word Draco could think was ‘perfect’. Harry moaned, rutting up against him even harder when Draco pinned his wrists, but the Slytherin was having none of that. He silenced him with his mouth, but quickly broke away.

“If you make a sound, Harry, I will tease you like this for  _ hours  _ do you understand me?” Harry nodded, his eyes wide but trusting, and Draco released his wrists. “Not a sound, Harry.” He knew this would be a struggle for the Gryffindor. Already, just from the kissing and the biting, Harry had proven himself to be a screamer and Draco loved it but just this once he needed something he could control. He needed something that Harry could do, something that could show obedience. Something that didn’t make the ache in his chest flare uncomfortably as if Harry might disappear now that he’d started this.

“Not a sound.” Harry broke that rule the second Draco touched his lips to the boy’s throbbing erection. Even through boxers, the touch was too much and Harry let out a wanton moan before quickly clapping his hand over his mouth. It was too late, though. Draco had known that Harry wouldn’t be able to do it—not at first, and not for very long—so he’d planned. With a malicious little smirk, Draco danced his hands up Harry’s chest but, just when the dark-haired boy looked content, he dug his nails in and left bright, stinging scratches down his sides. Harry screamed, but that sound was like heroin to Draco’s ears.

“I said not a sound, Harry.” The Gryffindor nodded, letting out a small whimper but ultimately settling back into place on the mattress.

“May I bite my hand?” Oh  _ Merlin _ . Draco hadn’t expected Harry to ask permission for anything, let alone something that simple, but the instant shift in their dynamic was electric. He grinned and gave Harry a reassuring little kiss above his heart.

“You may. Thank you for asking, Harry. Be careful not to break the skin though, okay? That’s my job.” Harry shuddered, but stayed quiet so Draco moved himself back down the Gryffindor’s body. Slowly, leisurely, he lowered the red boxers and discarded them. Beneath him, Harry was shaking with anticipation and half of him wanted to draw it out, to watch the boy suffer just because he could, but the other half ached to touch. Draco caved to the latter half, and lowered his mouth to Harry’s base.

Instantly, the body beneath him went rigid. He risked a glance up at his Gryffindor— _ no not his dammit! _ —and was pleased to see those emerald eyes squeezed tight in concentration. Harry was biting the meat of his palm, trying to muffle himself, but Draco could already see that control breaking and he hadn’t even opened his mouth yet. This… This was heaven.

“Not a sound,” he reminded, but he knew it wouldn’t matter. With absolutely no warning, he licked a thick trail from the base of Harry’s throbbing cock to the tip. Harry shrieked, but Draco took the leaking member down his throat anyways and raked his nails into Harry’s hips as an afterthought of punishment. It didn’t matter, though. The pain, if anything, egged Harry on. The body Draco was holding writhed and thrashed as he sucked, completely unabashed and completely uncontrolled, but it was beautiful nevertheless. Only when he was sure Harry would break his jaw from all the squirming did Draco break away.

“You’re not very good at following instructions.” Harry shivered, still obviously overcome by the feeling of Draco sucking his cock, but managed to looked slightly apologetic. Draco just tsked, though, and smiled.

“You’re lucky you’re too pretty to stay mad at.” That made Harry blush, a sight in and of itself that Draco vowed to make happen more often. Those emerald eyes stared back at him.

“Please may I?” Draco could guess what Harry meant, but he wanted to hear the words. He wanted to see Harry squirm and struggle to say something so taboo and so forbidden.

“May you what, Harry?” Sure enough, those emerald rings darkened with annoyance and agitation but Draco loved it. He loved everything about this entire situation, including the way Harry had started asking for permission before doing things.

“May I suck you?” The Slytherin was not unobservant, even when clouded with lust, and he heard the way Harry’s voice caught there, as if stopping himself just short of saying Sir. Another conversation for another time, but Draco had noticed. He nodded his permission with a little smile but, before he even had time to react, Harry had flipped them. The Gryffindor was shockingly strong, especially given how pliant those muscles had been under Draco’s touch just moments earlier. Harry could have easily thrown him off, but he hadn’t.

“Harry, it’s not very polite—” Draco was going to say something about manners, he really was, but the voice was stolen from his throat. Unlike him, Harry had no qualms or desire to draw this out or tease. He tore Draco’s boxers off with one quick motion and began sucking and nipping at the base of Draco’s cock. It was positively  _ unfair _ what that did to Draco’s body. The blond arched and held back a scream of his own because there was no way Harry was inexperienced with this and, in what felt like seconds, heat was starting to build in his gut.

Draco forced his eyes open. As much as it killed him, he wanted to see this and  _ Merlin _ he was not disappointed. The stretch of Harry’s lips around his cock was obscene and the glassy, unfocused look in those emeralds eyes made Draco have to fight that urge to claim again. Harry was having none of it, though. He took Draco down his throat in one smooth go and began to bob, which was almost too much by itself but then Draco saw it. With the hand that wasn’t bracing on the bed, Harry had reached back and began fingering himself.

“Harry—” He was going to say stop, to demand to take it slow and make this undeniably good for the Gryffindor who was so scared of admitting that he was gay, but he couldn’t. Harry was up to three fingers, setting a brutal pace, and Draco’s insides felt like they were being electrocuted with how quickly and how skillfully Harry’s mouth was working him. Draco moaned, finally letting his head fall back. He stopped Harry with a hand in his hair.

Immediately, Harry seemed to know what was coming next and, before Draco had even asked, the Gryffindor had positioned himself on his hands and knees on the bed. The dark-haired boy was hard and panting, the evidence of his arousal hanging heavy between his legs. But Draco couldn’t—he just couldn’t. A large part of him wanted to just plunge into that tight, wet heat and appease the burning in his chest but he looked at Harry and he couldn’t. Instead, he ran a hand up Harry’s spine.

“So beautiful…” Honestly, Draco was shocked he had the strength to speak, let alone be coherent. Harry just purred, though, and wiggled his ass in the air a bit. Such a tease. He would have been content with that, if it were any other situation, but that same urge from before flooded through his body, forcing him to touch if not to claim. So, relenting, he moved forward on the bed and pressed Harry’s chest into the mattress.

Making sure he could still breathe, Draco slid back and let his nails scratch lightly at Harry’s hips as he took in that tight, pink hole. Merlin it was beautiful. Harry was beautiful—so beautiful—and it simply wasn’t fair because he was driving Draco  _ wild _ . He was determined to fix that, though.

Confidently, as if he’d never done anything else in the world, Draco spread Harry’s cheeks and gave an experimental lick. No reaction, but then again he’d told Harry to be quiet. Rather than correct that little instruction, though, Draco became dead set on breaking Harry to the point that he  _ couldn’t _ keep quiet. He pressed his tongue flat against that pink hole and dragged.

Harry shuddered. Taking that as encouragement, Draco began to swirl his tongue in circles around the sensitive nerve endings and relished in the tremors that soon took over Harry’s body. His Gryffindor keened, thrusting back against his face with absolutely no shame. Wait, no. Fuck not his! Why was Draco having such a hard time with that!?

“Drake…” It was half sigh, half moan, but Draco obliged the little whimper and delved inside. Harry had already been fingering himself, prepping, but the way the muscles parted for Draco’s tongue was deliciously submissive and he loved it. He pressed harder, leaving little kitten licks around the edges as he worked a finger in. Beneath him, Harry spasmed and moaned.

“Hush, I didn’t say you could speak.” Though, Draco supposed one could hardly call a throaty moan like that speech, but the command worked either way. Harry stiffened, but obeyed and Merlin that was a beautiful thought. Harry obeying…

“Please Drake!” Draco scratched again, earning a shriek and a brilliant red from the newly exposed skin, but he just laughed and pulled back. As much as he wanted to tease and torture Harry like this until he couldn’t stand straight, he wanted to be inside him more. Just the word  _ inside _ made that need curl in his gut. The need to claim, the need to touch, and Draco hated it but it felt so, so good that he had to give in. He lined up at Harry’s entrance and cast a lubrication spell.

“Your pace, sweetheart.” Where the hell had that petname come from? Draco didn’t know, but he wasn’t given time to process it because Harry was pressing back onto him. He’d meant it when he’d said Harry’s pace, and he was not about to hurt the boy—not with this—even if he was a bit of a masochist. But  _ Merlin  _ Harry was taking him like a damn pornstar.

It took every ounce of self control that Draco had no to grab those hips and go wild. He refused, though, and merely watched as Harry bounced his ass back on his cock and slowly took more and more. When he bottomed out, Harry stilled.

“Please…” Draco was not about to do anything, right now, without knowing exactly what Harry was asking for, though.

“Please what, Harry?” Beneath him, the raven-haired boy wiggled and squirmed as if trying to get more friction but Draco needed to be sure. He needed there to not be even a shred of doubt about this.

“Please fuck me, Drake.” That did it. Any shadow of self control that Draco had held onto until that point shattered and he snapped his hips forward. Harry almost collapsed onto the bed, but Draco barely noticed. It was like fireworks had suddenly gone off in every nerve of his body and the second he thrust he was overcome with hot, pleasant sort of burn in his chest. Not the same burning from before, not the ache and the need, but a sweeter sort of heat that fizzled and warmed but more than anything just screamed  _ mine _ .

He flipped Harry on the bed, wanting to see those emerald eyes as he fucked him, but that was a mistake. His Gryffindor—no! Not… Fuck it.  _ His _ Gryffindor mewled at the new angle and grabbed desperately for any kind of contact Draco would give him but those eyes did him in. Harry’s eyes were blown wide with want and desire, but they were so open and so honest. They looked damn near submissive and there was so much trust there that Draco wanted to cry. No one had ever looked at him like that.

“Drake?” Draco realized with a start that he’d been scrunching his face up in an effort not to cry but, seeing the sudden fear in Harry’s face, he forced himself to relax. Gently, he pressed a kiss to Harry’s mouth and let their foreheads rest together for a moment.

“It’s okay, Harry.” For once, though, Harry didn’t seem to want to take those words at face value. Harry kept their position, Draco’s cock still pulsing in his ass, but reached up to cup a pale cheek and meet silver eyes. Draco wanted to scream. His body urged him to keep going, to claim, to take but he was stuck, trapped by those emerald rings.

“You’re upset, though.” Harry sounded so fucking worried that Draco almost started crying right then and there. He wanted this though—Merlin, he wanted this—so he took a deep breath. Slowly, he let himself lean into Harry’s palm.

“No, I’m not upset. I just… I think I just realized how much you care about me and that scared me is all. I’m okay, promise.” Harry was not letting it go, though. For being the one who’d been seconds from falling apart less than an hour ago, he’d become remarkably calm the second Draco had given him a command. It showed, too, in the timid way that dark hand cupped his cheek.

“Of course I care about you, Drake. Did you think that I willingly spent every night in another house’s common room holding and comforting and talking with someone I didn’t care about?” Draco couldn’t breathe. He tried, of course, but the air just wouldn’t come no matter what he did and he didn’t realize he was shaking until Harry tugged at his hair. Instantly, it all snapped into focus and Draco swore at himself.

“I’m okay, I promise.” Harry looked doubtful, but less worried than before. “Can we talk about this later, sweetheart?” Again with that fucking nickname! It felt right, though, and the way it made Harry’s eyes go soft with trust was not something Draco could ever regret. His Gryffindor smiled up at him, gave an experimental clench of his internal muscles, and nodded.

“Yeah, later. You promised to fuck me, didn’t you?” Draco shot him a playful glare, but there was no real anger behind it. Honestly, he was relieved that they weren’t still talking about what he’d accidentally let slip so he didn’t really care if Harry was sassy with him. They kissed, but it was quick. Before Harry had even had a chance to breathe, Draco snapped his hips up again and pulled a moan from that gorgeous, marked up throat.

“ _ Fuck _ Drake!” He didn’t stop, until that moment, enough to consider what Harry had called him. Drake. Blaise had called him Drake when they’d been friends. Pansy had tried, a couple times, but after Draco had threatened to hex her she’d stopped. Usually, Draco hated any kind of nickname or endearment because it implied a closeness that just wasn’t there—but that wasn’t how it was with Harry. With his Gryffindor, that name rolled off those bruised lips like honey.

He could feel the coil starting to tighten in his gut and he knew, without looking, that Harry’s body was slowly getting more and more tense beneath him. With one hand, he snaked between their bodies and gripped Harry’s cock. It was heavy, and leaking, but the way Harry squeaked when Draco began to pump was too sweet not to repeat. His Gryffindor let out a breathless groan.

“ _ Fuck Drake I’m— _ ” But he didn’t get the words out. Draco knew Harry’s body well enough by now to recognize the signs and he saw them, but he didn’t stop. Rather than withhold the Gryffindor’s release, Draco focused on hurrying his own and ground against the dark-haired boy’s prostate as he did so. There was one thing, but…

“ _ Drake please! _ ” Harry was begging now, his voice choked and tears starting down his face. Draco would never admit it but the sight of his Gryffindor, spread and wanton like that, begging for his touch was the kind of thing that kept him up at night. It was delicious, and obscenely beautiful. But Draco wouldn’t do the one thing that he knew would tip him over the edge.

“ _ Drake… _ ” It was more of a whimper now, a plea more than anything. Draco could hear the syllable break in the Gryffindor’s throat but he needed to hold just a second—oh, fuck it. Harry had already seen him break down more times than either of them could count. What was one more flash of vulnerability?

He caved, and grabbed one of Harry’s hands while refusing to stop pumping or thrusting, which made the raven-haired boy scream with pleasure. It was beautiful, but Draco wasn’t thinking about that. Instead, he guided the darker hand up to his throat. For a second, everything just stopped. Harry looked torn between confusion and apprehension, but then Draco squeezed a bit to cement his grip and returned his attention to the boy’s cock. Below him, Harry writhed.

“ _ Fuck Drake please! _ ” With that, Draco relented. He released his grip at the base of Harry’s cock and gave one last thrust before he felt Harry’s muscles spasm around him. It was  _ exquisite _ . He fell forward, praying to Merlin that Harry wouldn’t lose his grip now of all times, and let a fair amount of his body weight fall into Harry’s hand. Immediately, he couldn’t breathe. The pressure on his throat made his head fuzzy and it was just enough—just the perfect amount—for him to let go of any lasting anxiety. As Harry came apart beneath him, Draco crashed into oblivion.

Draco awoke to the feeling of Harry’s hands on his face, tapping gently at his cheeks and mumbling something that sounded vaguely like  _ are you okay _ . He jumped, but his body was sluggish and slow to respond. As his eyes came into focus, Draco took in the sight of Harry in his arms and, if the Gryffindor hadn’t been holding onto him so tight, Draco would have collapsed all over again.

“How long…?” He didn’t finish that question, though, because the relief that flooded Harry’s face was almost comical.

“Just a couple seconds. Was worried ‘bout you, though.” It seemed that the sluggishness was not only affecting Draco, but it was endearing. He ruffled that dark hair because it looked irresistible, suddenly, and planted a chaste kiss on Harry’s lips before settling back on the bed in a more comfortable position. Gently, he pulled Harry into the curve of his side. The boy fit like a glove and it was just cruel how perfect he looked like that. Eyes wide and exhausted, lips bruised and smeared with blood, entire body coated in sweat and cum—Draco wanted to fuck him all over again, just from looking at him. But he was exhausted, so he settled for planting a kiss to the boy’s forehead.

“Wand?” Draco grappled, but eventually found Harry’s wand and passed it to him. Quietly, Harry mumbled a few spells and Draco felt the sticky mess disappear from their bodies, as well as the bed. He glowered when the blood disappeared, but quickly forgot that when his eyes landed on the bite mark on Harry’s neck.

“Did I do that?” Harry laughed, nuzzling a bit closer into his side as a draft blew through the room. Wordlessly, Draco summoned a blanket and wrapped them in it.

“Yes, you did, and Merlin I hope you do it again.” Draco laughed, but he couldn’t completely hide his surprise at that because he’d expected the golden boy to be bitter or at least whiny about it. His Gryffindor shuddered, though as Draco ran his fingers over the mark.

“You like being mine, Potter?” He hadn’t meant to use the last name, honestly, but it only made Harry smirk and wiggle a bit closer. In his arms, his Gryffindor rolled a bit and practically purred. Draco was expecting some kind of retort or rebuttal, some semblance of the fire that they’d had between them in their earlier years, but Harry just smiled.

“Would I let you leave a mark like that if I didn’t?”


	5. Chapter 5

Draco may not have been good with emotions—particularly his own—but he was very intelligent and he learned the patterns in people long before he analyzed anything touchy-feely. For instance, he knew that Harry loved to please. Behind all that Gryffindor bravado and that Golden Boy self-confidence, Harry was constantly struggling with the need to be  _ good _ . He wasn’t sure why, yet, but Draco had seen that pattern almost instantly—the second he’d praised the Gryffindor at the piano—and he used it as often as possible.

As much as he hated to admit it, Harry was learning him too. Maybe he didn’t live to please and maybe he didn’t turn into a puddle of mush at the slightest bit of praise, but he had his own weaknesses. Normally, he would rather have died than let someone know something so personal about him. He couldn’t avoid it, though, no matter what he did so he just let Harry test and prod and experiment until the dark-haired boy found his vice.

Draco was a sucker for physical contact.

Harry knew that from before, of course, but Draco had never let him see any kind of reaction other than the most obvious—and only while playing piano. Usually, he let a little bit more slip through when they were tangled together on the couch or locked away in the room of requirement, but it still wasn’t much. If Harry was anything, though, he was persistent.

It wouldn’t have been an issue—and shouldn’t have been an issue—if not for Snape: the black-haired greasebucket that was his godfather. Under normal circumstances, Draco looked forward to Potions because it was what he excelled at. All the Slytherins reaped the benefits of Snape’s favoritism, himself in particular. Snape was pissed, though, and out for revenge because of something Lucius had done—Draco wasn’t even cleared to know the details—and he was taking it out on the lookalike son.

It would have been fine, honestly. Draco could take a lot and spitting criticism from his godfather—even in the one subject he loved and excelled at more than any other—wasn’t completely unbearable. But, combined with silence from his parents, a ministry investigation into his family, and the pressure of the Dark Lord’s return, Draco was not prepared for anything else. One insult— _ one _ —had him fighting back tears.

He cursed himself for being so weak and he dug his nails into forearm to brace himself but it wasn’t enough. Within an hour, he was done. He didn’t care that it was a double lesson or that Snape would have his head for something so dramatic, he just had to get out. Snape yelled at him when he got within a few feet of the door, but Draco whipped around—his wand already out—and practically dared the man to fire off a spell. The class went silent.

Like clockwork, Snape cast a disarming charm and Draco blocked it without even trying. They both knew that he was a much better dueler, and Snape had sat in on enough of his private lessons to know that Draco was skilled. He could have humiliated the Potions Master in front of everyone. Instead, he merely shot the man a glare and started off again in the opposite direction. He wasn’t sure where he was going or what he was doing, but he knew that no one was going to follow him and that was enough for now. His feet just kept going.

Over and over again, until he was basically sprinting. Somewhere between the steps and the panting, Draco managed to half slide, half fall down a set of unforgiving stone stairs. Which didn’t make any sense, he thought, because they were already in the dungeons. It didn’t matter, though. Apparently his body decided he was far enough from other people and he just collapsed, caught between the throbbing of his back and the burning in his chest.

“Drake? Hey, you’re okay just breathe with me, okay?” Harry? When—no, wait,  _ how _ —the hell had Harry found him? He didn’t really care, though, because before he could even blink Harry was behind him, settling into place as if they were on a piano bench and anchoring his arms around Draco’s trembling frame. Dammit why couldn’t he just be stronger?!

“Breathe, Drake, it’s okay I’ve got you. Just breathe. We can figure whatever it is out together.” Draco wanted to cry. And then he was crying, because no one had ever had so much fucking  _ faith _ in him before and Harry didn’t even know what was going on. Merlin, he was going to throw up or pass out or something—

His mind narrowed to the single sensation of lips pressing against his own. Harry bit at his lower lip and tangled a hand in his hair but Draco was so far gone that it didn’t matter anymore. Just the contact was more than enough. He melted into the gentle tug of Harry’s fingers in his hair and he completely surrendered to the pressure on his hips, guiding him to turn and settle in Harry’s lap. 

This… was different. It wasn’t the first time Harry had comforted him during an attack, but it was the first time that he’d done so without hiding under that damn cloak. Somehow, seeing his face made it so much more real. There was a weight in his expression and a kind of desperation in his hands that Draco had never seen in him before—not even with the rest of the Golden Trio. Harry sat there with him, just gently touching whatever skin he could reach, and didn’t ask a single question or demand a single explanation. The Gryffindor was just watching him now. There was so much  _ concern _ in his face, though, that Draco actually regretted having a meltdown for the pain it had caused his… whatever the hell Harry was. 

“M’sorry.” Harry shook his head, burying his face in the hollow of Draco’s throat and kissing his pulse point. 

“Don’t be,” Merlin, that whisper hit him like the loudest scream he’d ever heard, and he jumped. “We can talk about it tonight, if you’d prefer.” So he wasn’t going to get out of it, then. Harry would ask questions and demand answers but at least he would do it in the privacy of their nightly meetups rather than in the middle of the corridor. 

“Yeah.” Harry raised a hand, cupping the side of Draco’s face, but didn’t comment on the tear tracks there. Draco didn’t even realize, in that moment, how uncharacteristic it was of the Gryffindor to be so quiet or so unquestioning but he would have been lying if he said he wasn’t grateful for the peace. Instead, Harry just rubbed a hand between his shoulder blades. 

“Thank you.” Harry nodded, still silent. Was he upset? Honestly, Draco had never seen him so calm in such an emotional situation and it was starting to wear on his nerves because something  _ had _ to be wrong, didn’t it? No one, least of all a Gryffindor, was going to just switch of their own emotions in a situation like that. 

Harry was quiet, though, and once Draco managed to meet his eyes for more than a few seconds, he seemed to think it was alright to move. Draco didn’t even get to open his mouth, however, let alone beg him to stay, before the Gryffindor was shifting them and pulling aside the collar of his robes. Slowly, with their eyes locked, Harry undid the top three buttons of his shirt and loosened his tie. He curled his fingers into the fabric and pulled it to one side, letting the heaviest materials slip off his shoulder completely. Why, though?

Draco didn’t understand what was happening. But, he trusted Harry—as terrifying as that was—so he let the shorter boy wrap a hand around the back of his neck and pull him closer. He thought Harry might kiss him, or even kiss his forehead, but no. Harry guided him to his shoulder, and only then did Draco understand what was happening. The mark on that beautiful skin was still prominent and bruised, like some kind of monstrous hickey with tiny little scars healing over from where his teeth had punctured the skin. Harry was guiding him to the mark. 

“Harry—” The Gryffindor just shook his head, though, and pulled a bit more forcefully at Draco’s hair. He relented and settled his lips against the mark. Merlin, the way Harry shivered at the contact was delicious and Draco had half a mind to drag them both to the room of requirement right then and there but he knew better. This wasn’t sexual, as much as it probably looked that way from the outside. Slowly, he mouthed at the healing skin and kissed an outline of his own dental impression. Harry went lax beneath him. 

“So good,” Harry  _ lived _ on praise and Draco knew it was wrong to use that against him but it couldn’t hurt to make him relax a bit, could it? Regardless, Harry let out a little purr and nudged him. 

“Harry, it hasn’t even healed from before—” Apparently the Gryffindor was not feeling cooperative or submissive, though, because he tightened the grip he had on Draco’s hair and pulled much more forcefully. Well… if he insisted.

This time, Draco was much slower with the bite and he dragged his teeth against the skin just to test the sensitivity. As much as he knew Harry enjoyed this, he didn’t want to actually hurt him. Instead, he alternated lapping at the skin and scraping at it until Harry was practically fisting his hair in an attempt to get him closer. It was wrong—he knew that—but  _ Merlin _ he wanted to. Another tug from Harry was all it took to break what little self-control he had, and Draco surrendered to that deeper urge in his chest. He sank his teeth into the skin, relishing the yelp he earned for it. 

“Fuck, Drake…” He couldn’t tell if that was said in desire or in shock, but he knew it wasn’t in pain so he held his position until he could taste blood. When he did break away, they both seemed to sigh a bit. 

“Satisfied, my love?” It was sarcastic—that was the only way that Draco ever used petnames like that—but Harry didn’t seem to take it that way and he immediately brightened. They kissed—sweet and short—before Harry grabbed his wand and spelled any blood or tears away.

“Completely.” Draco couldn’t help running his thumb over the wound, though. There was a sick kind of pleasure in the way that Harry’s wince turned into a full body shiver every time he passed over a particularly sensitive spot, but now wasn’t the time to analyze that desire. They were both calm, and that was what mattered.

“How’re you going to explain that mark to Granger and Weasel?” Harry didn’t even lift his head.

“I’ll tell them you did it, if you want me to.” That made Draco stop. He froze, his hand raised halfway between the mark and Harry’s face, but he couldn’t move. There was no way. Had Harry really just said that? Offered to tell his best friends that he was both gay and in some kind of relationship or arrangement with their worst enemy?

“You don’t mean that.” The lack of contact made Harry raise his head, but his eyes were not glassy or unfocused. He stared back at Draco like he was stating something completely obvious and mundane, like the weather.

“I do.” 

“But you…?” There were so many things he could have said there:  _ but you’re not out, but you’re supposed to hate me, but they hate me, but no one else knows, but… _ Harry heard them all, somehow, and merely squeezed his hand. 

“I would do it, if you asked me to.” He understood, then. This wasn’t Harry making some grand gesture for their relationship and this wasn’t some manipulative plot or trick. This was Harry, completely open and vulnerable, staring into his soul and showing him exactly how much he cared. That he wasn’t alone, that the world wasn’t against him, and that he meant something to the Gryffindor beyond a casual fuck or friends with benefits relationship.

“You mean that.” It wasn’t a question, but Harry knew him well enough to hear the uncertainty in his voice.

“I do,” He offered a little smile, running his hand through his hair. “But don’t think that gets you off the hook for tonight.”


End file.
